


the winter king

by neroh



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Heist, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5659171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shh, darling,” his lover assures, kissing his forehead. He stares upon Eggsy’s face with his warm brown eyes, smiling as he’s always done. “My lovely darling.”</p><p>Eggsy shudders as he digs his fingernails into the man’s shoulders in hopes to keep him in his arms for just a moment longer. “I’m not ready,” he whispers.</p><p>“You will be.”</p><p>Silence and darkness come. As they’ve always done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the winter king

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to Bre, Leah, Zin, Mo, and Emma for the support and flailing you provided. 
> 
> The title comes from the first book in the Arthurian series, the Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell. I didn't realize this until after the fact, so go me! Quotes are borrowed from _Kingsman_ and _Inception_.

It’s always the same dream.

Every night, without fail for the past year, it’s always the same; he’s tangled up in white and grey bed linens as morning sunlight streams into the room, shining upon a man whose name Eggsy Unwin can never remember.

A piano sonata plays; the tune haunting and soft and wholly out of place in the bedroom as he lies with this strange gentleman.

This man with his unruly brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes. A slow smile causes dimples to form at the corners of his mouth and a warm, melodious baritone that speaks in whispers. He presses his lips against the birthmarks upon his skin, naming constellations as his capable hands trace over the path left by saliva.

_Sculptor's Chisel, Hydrus, Lyra, Vela, Triangulum Australe._

Their names change nightly, depending on his mood when he retires for the evening, shifting like symbols in a cipher. Some of them no longer exist in modern times, having vanished from the night sky or melded with another group of stars to form something else entirely.

_Asterion and Chara, Hirudo, Sceptrum et Manus Iustitiae, Pomum Imperiale, Polophylax._

“How do you remember all their names?” Eggsy asks as the man nips the bottom of his rib cage. He tilts his head to better look at his bedfellow.

The man as broad, lovely, flawless shoulders which are in plain view. Defined by golden skin draped over muscle, they beg to be worshipped as he moves. “Hrm?” the man replies, lifting his head to smile at Eggsy. “How do I remember what?”

“The constellations,” the young man says, watching as his stranger moves up the expanse of his body until his chin rests on Eggsy’s chest. He winds a lock of dark hair around his finger, noting the contrast between the two. “How different we are from each other,” he murmurs.

A familiar smile attracts his attention. “Not so much,” the man tells him. “We’re more alike than you think, Eggsy.”

He begs to differ.

This man is posh and sophisticated in a way that is born, not made. He carries himself as if he were an aristocrat, though there’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as if he’s about to do something that high society would find unbecoming.

“What do you see?” the man inquires. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

Eggsy studies him, scrutinizing every detail of this stranger, from the faint scar upon his forehead to the curve of his straight eyebrows and the dignified slope of his nose. “Someone who wants to know how the fuck he ended up in bed with a chav,” the young man quips.

“No,” the man replies, brows furrowed. He goes to straddle Eggsy’s hips, revealing his chiseled, yet soft body. It’s fit, especially for a man of his age—somewhere in his late forties to mid-fifties. Time has been good to him like he’s gone and made a deal with the devil. “When I look at you, I see a young man with potential. A young man who is loyal. Who can do as he is asked, and who wants to do something good with his life.”

He feels as if he’s heard this speech before, but cannot recall when or where. “I think we’re lookin’ at a different mirror, guv,” Eggsy tells him.

“Perhaps you’re peering into the wrong one,” the man counters, taking hold of one of the young man’s hands. As he inspects the appendage, he caresses each finger before bringing them to his mouth. Lips kiss knuckles and fingertips, murmuring more constellation names. “Canes Venatici, Chamaeleon, Circinus, Horologium, Sagitta, Sagittarius.”

He comes to Eggsy’s pinkie, immersing it into the wet, slick heat of his mouth. The stranger goes about this slowly, maintaining eye contact as he sucks on the finger. There is fierceness in his gaze that causes Eggsy to blush as his cock hardens between his legs.

This man looks at him as if he wants to possess the young man in mind, body, and soul.

“Who are you?” Eggsy asks as his finger is removed from the stranger’s mouth. He feels the press of lips against his chest, followed by his neck. He closes his eyes as pressure is applied to a sensitive spot just under his chin. “I know you from somewhere, but can’t remember your name.”

The man’s teeth scrape over the cleft in the middle of his chin. “Shh,” he utters, moving closer to Eggsy’s mouth. “Don’t worry about that now, darling.”

He goes to reply, only to find his words swallowed by the stranger’s lips. Eggsy reaches for him, as he’s always done, and becomes tangled up in him. The scent of the man’s cologne lingers all around them, growing stronger when Eggsy takes him into his body.

Fingers press into his hips, pulling on them as the stranger thrusts into him. Whoever this man is, he knows Eggsy’s body better than he does. His cock finds the young man’s prostate with each movement, sending fissions down his spine.

He clings to the stranger, tugging on him in order to keep their lips together, to breathe the same air, to never leave. Eggsy moves his hands, burying them in the older man’s hair and grasping tightly as his lover pants in his ear.

“Darling,” the stranger moans. “My darling.”

His orgasm pools in his groin, spreading rapidly as Eggsy nears the end. The very thought causes tears to sting his eyes because he’ll wake soon. “Tell me your name,” he begs into the stranger’s shoulder. “Please tell me your name.”

“Shh, darling,” his lover assures, kissing his forehead. He stares at Eggsy’s face with his warm brown eyes, smiling as he’s always done. “My lovely darling.”

Eggsy shudders as he digs his fingernails into the man’s shoulders in hopes to keep him in his arms for just a moment longer. “I’m not ready,” he whispers.

“You will be.”

Silence and darkness come. As they’ve always done.

 

* * *

 

It’s always the same when he wakes.

He douses himself with cool water, holding his hands to his face to allow the remaining liquid seep out the crevices of his fingers. After a few moments, Eggsy places his hands on the edge of the sink, breathing heavily as his heart pounds against his rib cage.

In the tiny bathroom, Eggsy counts to ten and exhales before sucking in another breath to repeat the process. Time passes as it's wont to do and the young man is able to calm himself. The beginnings of a headache start to throb at his temples, moving towards the base of his skull.

Eggsy swallows as he catches his reflection in the aged bathroom mirror. At the base of his sternum hangs his father’s totem, a broken mariner’s compass that always points north, from a chain that once belonged to his mother. Staring at himself for a long while, Eggsy notes the hardness of his features and the bruises under his eyes.

And remembers…

_A man, his lover. Constellations. A piano sonata._

Eggsy blinks, feeling dampness on his eyelids, and runs a hand through his hair before opening the medicine cabinet. He rummages around until he finds an unopened bottle of paracetamol sent by Merlin, the crazy bastard, hidden by his deodorant. Upon opening it, Eggsy shakes out two pills into his palm and tosses them into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

He emanates a disgusted grunt from the bitter residue on his tongue and goes to leave, flicking off the lights.

It’s early morning and the sun is beginning to lighten the eastern sky over Goa. Eggsy reckons he should go back to sleep, but his body is buzzing with restlessness.

An insatiable urge to flee, the same thing that brought him to the sandy shores of this Indian paradise.

Eggsy chose it because of a film he watched when he was younger. _The Bourne Supremacy_ he thinks. He reckoned that the titular character seemed happy enough…that is until a fellow assassin found him and shot his bird to death. The fact that it’s another world away from England also helps, since he’s wanted for murder.

Not that he remembers doing the deed, but according to Scotland Yard, his fingerprints were found all over the spilled glass of poisoned brandy his mentor and boss, Chester King, had drunk.

Physical evidence is damning, despite claims of innocence from his friends, and instead of facing imprisonment, Eggsy fled.

The cowardly thing to do.

He doesn’t recall much of the days following Chester’s death or even leaving England. It felt like one moment he was with… _someone_ , Eggsy isn’t able to remember who, and he blinked to find himself on the front porch of his cottage.

As if his mind has blocked these events on purpose.

It’s frustrating because Eggsy knows within his marrow he’s missing something vital, like a piece of him has been taken and locked away from his reach.

Even the memory of Chester is distant, faint even. He had been there when Eggsy had been recruited by Harry Hart, a man whose face he can barely remember, and guided him through the training to become an extractor like his father had been.

Or perhaps it had been Merlin? Or Percival.

Eggsy finds himself fraught with anxiety because of the holes in his memory. He knew that this could be a potential side effect of the job—it happened to Lee Unwin, after all—but it’s too soon for gaps to be forming.

Or is it?

He stares at his unmade bed—the sheets and blanket thrown asunder—and decides that his time would be better used for a run along the beach.

Grabbing his worn out trainers, Eggsy pulls them on and tucks the mariner’s compass into his t-shirt before setting off. It’s a peculiar trinket, made of gold-plated brass with rose-colored enamel and an engraving of three sets of numbers: twelve, nineteen, ninety-seven.

The date his mother died.

A strange thing to have etched into metal, but Lee had been a strange man before his death. The doctors said it was early onset dementia with catatonia, though Eggsy knew the truth. Longing to be reunited with his mother, his father had deliberately gotten himself killed in the dreamscape and fell to limbo until his physical body died along with his mental state.

Watching Lee succumb to his own actions had been excruciating for Eggsy, who had been in his second year at Cambridge. He sat in his father’s hospital room and held his hand as the elder Unwin’s body withered into nothing. The strong, robust man that had been Lee was replaced by a husk.

That’s how Eggsy had been introduced to Hamish “Merlin” Greaves, Chester King, and another fellow named Harry Hart. The three of them worked with Lee; Merlin being the forger, Chester as the boss and former architect prior to Lee, and Harry as…

He slumps over his trainers, perplexed. What had Harry been?

So odd how a man who had known his father and whom Eggsy had worked with has become a vague recollection. A phantom with no identifying features to speak of.

“Losin’ my bloody mind,” the young man laments as he continues to tie his laces.

Rising off the bed, Eggsy grabs his keys and shoves them into his pocket as he steps out onto the porch with the front door slamming shut behind him.

He was never a runner prior to arriving in Goa, having relied on gymnastics and machines for exercise. Perhaps it’s the serenity of Palolem Beach and the paradise-found atmosphere of his surroundings, but it leads Eggsy out onto the shore, running through the area. He focuses on the sound of his breathing and of the soles of his trainers slapping against the pavement when he’s on it.

Whatever restlessness he contains, it dissipates.

Also, it doesn’t hurt that he’s getting fresh air.

The sea salt-tinged air is already warm, even with darkness lingering overhead. Eggsy takes a moment to stretch his limbs and then sets off in a jog down the empty beach.

Upon clearing the row of cottages, he picks up his speed and runs faster. Sweat forms at his temples and the small of his back, causing the t-shirt to cling to his skin.

And he runs.

From the stranger who haunts his dreams, from a murder he doesn’t remember committing, from the madness that has surrounded his twenty-six years like a shroud.

He runs under his lungs ache and his legs are filled with a sensation Eggsy likens to boiled spaghetti. The young man comes to a stop, placing his hands on his hips to gaze out onto the water. Steadying his breath, he drops onto the sand as the morning sun peaks just over the horizon.

Nearly two years in this Indian state and half a world away from his true home, Eggsy tries to pretend that he has some semblance of a normal life to appease Merlin.

Except, it never feels right and he’s uncertain if it ever will.

 

* * *

 

Eggsy doesn’t tell anyone.

Not that he has many people to talk to—folks tend to stop calling when you’re wanted for a murder you don’t remember committing. For the few who still speak to him, Eggsy doesn’t want to push more of his problems onto them.

He figures he needs to get laid; after all, he’s a young man with a normal sexual appetite who’d rather become a shut-in than experience life or venture into others’ dreams to steal their secrets. He hadn’t become an architect like his dear old dad, though it’s not to say that he didn’t possess the capability.

Being an extractor, that was his true calling. Subjects found it easy to open up to Eggsy, even in their subconscious. Something about him—his demeanor, his boyish appearance, perhaps the friendly pull of his smile—made them feel at ease while he sieved out secrets and vanished.

 _Like a wisp of smoke_ , he muses to himself as he sits at a bar, drinking a beer and perusing the clientele. It’s a healthy mix of expats and tourists with a smidge of locals, all of them boozing it up on the cheap in India.

The steady thump of electro-pop comes out of the bar’s speakers, getting lost in the night breeze and drifting away from the patio where Eggsy sits. He spins his totem—a brass toy top small enough to fit into the palm of his hand—on the tabletop, watching it as it dances on the worn surface.

He always thought that Chester gave it to him until Merlin told him otherwise.

“Harry Hart,” he said while they sat at a candlelit table in the middle of Shanghai. They had just finished a job and were out for celebratory dinner and drinks.

Eggsy looked at the totem, roaming over the worn metal blemished with scratches and nicks. “Yeah? Are you sure, bruv? Could have sworn it was Chester.”

Chester had been his mentor, after all; only fitting that he would had given Eggsy a totem. A symbol of their relationship, one would reckon, and how strange it was that the young man would find guidance in the imposing old man who always wore bespoke suits with a crimson-colored tie.

But it hadn’t been him.

It had been Harry; those memories are vague and leave an ache in the center of Eggsy’s chest. He glances at the totem, finding it fitting how it has been gifted to him by a man he barely remembers and how he dreams of another whose name always seems to be on the tip of his tongue.

“That’s an interesting trinket,” a man’s voice says, interrupting his thoughts.

Eggsy blinks, confused. “Pardon?”

He finds himself looking up at a man with sunkissed skin, sparkling hazel eyes, and unruly dark hair. His nose is button-shaped with flared nostrils and a dusting of freckles. His clothing says English, though his accent is clearly from New Zealand.

Eggsy notices that the first three buttons of his linen shirt are undone, exposing the smooth line of his chest and a necklace that disappears under the fabric. _Odd,_ he thinks, bemused, _Must be allergic to buttons._

“That top you keep spinning between your fingers,” he repeats, gesturing to Eggsy’s fingers. “Is it a family heirloom?”

Eggsy glances at the object before shaking his head. “I’ve always had it,” he says without further elaboration.

“Ah,” the stranger replies, nodding. After a beat, his cupid’s bow lips form a dimpled smile. “I noticed you were drinking alone and wanted to see if you’d like some company.”

It’s the dimples that make Eggsy invite the stranger to take a seat. The sweetness of them, so unassuming. It reminds him of the man in his dreams. This man, who introduces himself as Zack Ballard, may not be as vibrant but he is flesh and blood.

Plus, he is willing to take Eggsy back to his posh hotel room once they’ve had their fill of alcohol and small talk. Neither of them mentions the ring-shaped tan line on his left ring finger because, frankly, it’s this chap’s business if he wants to cheat on whoever is waiting for him at home.

Also, Eggsy is dying to know what charm hides under Zack’s shirt, something he mentions to his one-night stand as they snog in the elevator. It makes his new friend laugh, the vibrations the young man feels as he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses into Zack’s neck.

It’s not like the man in his dreams’ laughter—the warm rumble that reminds Eggsy of a summertime thunderstorm—but it’s real and ringing in his ears. He’s certain that Zack doesn’t recite the names of constellations, but he’ll take what he can get.

Eggsy finds that the other man’s skin tastes like beer and salt, growing sweeter once they are in the hotel room with the _do not disturb_ sign on the door. Drunk, numb fingers unbutton Zack’s shirt, pushing it off broad, freckled shoulders. The article of clothing is forgotten as it lands on the carpet and the two men wrestle their way to the king size bed.

He’d be lying if he said that the older man wasn’t good to look at; the golden shade of his skin is even across his toned body. Whether it’s hours under the Goa sun or being genetically blessed, Eggsy doesn’t give a shit. He continues nipping and raking his teeth across collarbones, lightly furred pectorals, and a flat stomach.

“Me first,” Zack tells him when he’s about to see what the New Zealander is hiding in his trousers. A mischievous grin crosses his lips, which Zack wets with his own before he begins undressing Eggsy.

Closing his eyes, Eggsy gives himself over to the older man’s ministrations and makes all the agreeable sounds that keep Zack going. Each inch of him is peppered with kisses, from jaw to hipbone. A tongue runs a sticky line into the waistband of his boxer briefs; they’re pulled down shortly after and his erection springs into the cool air of the hotel room.

Without a word, Zack’s hands are on him and stroking his length with a calloused hand. The uneven texture feels fucking amazing—anything but his own hand does—and Eggsy keens in reply.

“You fucking want it, don’t you?” the other man asks, sounding delighted by his action. He tugs at the young man’s cock and licks a hasty stripe from base to tip. Zack groans. “Fuck, you taste good.”

Eggsy ends up on the receiving end of a very enthusiastic blow job, watching Zack’s plum-colored lips bobbing up and down his cock. A warm, slick hand creeps to his balls, rolling them in time with a skilled mouth before seeking other things.

Fingers swipe over his arsehole, making their intentions known, and the young man spreads his legs. “Oh fuck,” Eggsy moans as a blunt tip sinks into him, the delicious burn spreading through his body. He grasps Zack’s shoulders, feeling the muscles working under his palms.

His new friend’s tongue laps at the vein under his head as the single finger sinks deeper, stretching the tight ring of muscle of his arsehole before adding another. Eggsy grinds down on them greedily and whines as they brush against his prostate.

“Holy shit,” the young man pants, hips bucking at the pleasurable sensation. It steals his breath for a moment, leaving Eggsy gasping and hot all over. “Fuck…”

Two becomes three and Zack begins to mouth his balls, keeping Eggsy on the edge of release until he finds himself pushed onto his back. The New Zealander is kneeling over him, having divested himself of his clothing and is rolling a condom onto his cock.

It’s a good-sized dick; uncircumcised and flushed red. The kind of cock that will feel good when it’s pounding into Eggsy’s arsehole.

While it doesn’t belong to the man in his dreams, it will suit his purposes just fine, the young man reckons as Zack pushes into him.

Besides, it doesn’t matter since Eggsy leaves before sunrise.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, he’s getting off a plane in Tokyo and his evening with Zack Ballard is a distant memory.

Merlin phoned him, saying he needed help, so the story goes. He’s not surprised to hear from his old friend since he has a tendency to check in on him. When Eggsy first arrived in Goa, he found Merlin’s near-constant presence to be annoying.

Granted, he hardly remembers the trip, only the part where he woke up in his cottage with Merlin lurking about and a drowsy feeling that comes from sedation.

Eggsy settles into his hotel room and texts his friend to let him know that he’s arrived. In a little under an hour, the room is a whirlwind of disarray and Merlin’s walking through the door, surveying his surroundings with his usual dour disposition.

“Is that how you keep your home nowadays?” he questions, lifting a discarded undershirt between his thumb and index finger.

Eggsy shrugs while brushing his teeth. “Depends,” he answers once he spits out the toothpaste foam and rinsed his mouth. “Usually I pick up if I know company’s comin’.”

“ _Coming_ , for god’s sake,” Merlin corrects, rolling his eyes. He’s wearing his usual attire—a solid colored jumper over a collared shirt and trousers. His customary glasses are perched on his nose, resembling the higher echelon of British society. It’s his Scottish brogue that gives him away, especially when Merlin drinks.

It’s comforting to see that certain things have not changed. “What brings you ‘round?” he asks.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Merlin replies, looking and sounding as dour as usual. “Lance is dead.”

Lance, whose full name Eggsy never learned. He was a debonair fellow who stepped in as the architect once Lee passed on. He was handsome in an aristocratic sort of way—strong nose, bluer than blue eyes, dark hair, straight white teeth when he smiled—and also incredibly pompous. And shallow, vain, crass, and arrogant.

Personality flaws aside, he enjoyed Lance’s company when the older man wasn’t fucking about.

“Oh,” Eggsy says after a long pause. “When?”

Merlin plucks his glasses from his face and runs them along the top of the dresser. “Last night,” he explains. “Messy business; could barely identify what was left of him.”

“How’s Percival handlin’ it?”

“With a stiff upper lip and brandy, per usual,” Merlin says with a smirk.

Eggsy goes to scoop up his discarded dress shirt from the bed and begins to wonder why his friend decided to come here in person. Not that he doesn’t enjoy Merlin’s company, even if he is a crusty old bastard; a phone call would have sufficed. “Are they sayin’ I did it?” he questions while standing up to his full height.

“Goodness no!” Merlin exclaims, alarmed. “Your name’s been kept out of it.”

The young man rolls his eyes, snorting his distaste. “For now you mean. Good to know then,” he grumbles. “So what brings to you to the wilds of Tokyo, bruv? Very unlike you to leave the Park Hyatt.”

“Dinner,” the Scotsman answers. “One that Lance was supposed to be a part of before…well. We need help on short notice.”

Eggsy pulls a face. “I think ol’ age is gettin’ to you, mate. I ain’t an architect and despite what you lot think, I ain’t my dad.”

“Actually,” Merlin begins, “Lance was meant to be our extractor for this assignment.” He tilts his head and gauges the young man’s reaction. “He could do both—architect and extracting—though I daresay you were far better at the latter.”

Mulling this over, Eggsy purses his lips in thought. “Then why didn’t you tell me when you first phoned?”

“Lance was insistent that he could handle the job, and had he not expired, I believe this to be true,” his friend explains. Sighing, Merlin palms his face and brushes his hand over his bald scalp. “You’ve had a rough go of things…I wasn’t certain if you’d accept.”

Eggsy shrugs and begins moving towards his bedroom. “Fair enough, bruv,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes to his nightstand where his totem lies.

He spins it on the surface of the piece of furniture and watches it wobble, then topple over. _Not dreaming then_ , he muses to himself. The floorboard creaks and when he turns, Eggsy finds Merlin observing him from across the room. “What?”

“You still do that?”

With a careless gesture, the young man sets the toy back in its place. “Sometimes I can’t be sure what’s real or not,” Eggsy admits.

“Oh? Are you speaking of waking dreams?”

He shakes his head. “No; recurrin’ ones,” he whispers as his stares at the top. Turning to Merlin, Eggsy forces a grin. “Tell me ‘bout this job on the way to dinner, yeah?”

It’s a meeting with a reclusive American businessman and his assistant, who wants competition taken out. The usual bad deed that brings in a lot of money and keeps everyone happy.

The appointment takes place at a fancy restaurant, where Eggsy feels wholly out of place as he follows behind Merlin and the maître.

They come to a table that has two people seated at it: a man of African extraction and a woman whose strong features could place her as Mediterranean or Middle Eastern, possibly North African. The man is dressed very loudly, comprising of garish colors and patterns with a baseball cap upon his head—a bit much, even for a place like Japan.

The woman is tastefully attired and seems to be the proverbial day to this man’s night. She is tapping away on a tablet and nodding at whatever the man—her boss—seems to be telling her. Upon the maître’s clearing his throat, she glances up at Eggsy and Merlin, smiling demurely.

“Merlin, man, you found us!” the man exclaims as he stands up to shake the Scotsman’s hand. His smile is gap-toothed and Eggsy swears he hears a bit of a lisp when he speaks, obviously an American. The stranger notices him lingering in the back. “And who is this?”

Merlin places a hand on the young man’s shoulder, steering him ahead as he makes introductions. “Eggsy Unwin,” he says. “One of the best extractors I’ve worked with, despite his age.”

“Better than that dead guy?” the man questions, suspicious, to which Merlin nods. “Unwin. Not a name you hear every day.”

Eggsy bristles at this, trying to conceal the fear of being found out. “You know the English,” he says. The man is quiet and staring at him with amber colored eyes, making him uncomfortable. “We enjoy our unique surnames.”

“Indeed.” The stranger is seemingly convinced, clapping Eggsy on the shoulder. “Richmond Valentine.” He gestures at the woman, who is still seated. “This is my assistant, Gazelle.”

She inclines her head, lips quirked. “Pleasure,” the woman says.

“Likewise,” Eggsy tells her as Valentine gestures for him and Merlin to take a seat. As he makes himself comfortable, he squeezes the top and feels the metal against his palm.

They order food and drinks, some of which the young man has only heard of in passing. He allows Merlin to procure his meal for him while taking the opportunity to glance at his surroundings. It’s a posh establishment, that much is clear, and it seems that despite Valentine’s loud outward appearance, the staff pays no mind to him.

In fact, they seem to be the only patrons in the restaurant.

“We’re the only ones here,” Eggsy whispers to Merlin.

Gazelle, who is sipping on cucumber water, nods at this. “Mr. Valentine likes his privacy,” she tells him.

“You mean…” the young man chokes. Leaning closer to the center of the table, he says, “He paid to have this place cleared out?”

She shrugs, smiling mysteriously as Valentine chuckles.

“Money buys many things, Eggy,” the man tells him.

“It’s _Eggsy_ ,” he corrects, over-pronouncing his nickname and casting a dubious scowl at Merlin.

Valentine makes a face. “Eggsy? Were your parents hippies?”

“No,” the young man says, tapping the top of the table. “Given name is Gary, but had I had no hair on my head. Mum reckoned I looked like an egg or summat.”

Both Valentine and Gazelle chuckle softly at the explanation. “Well, Eggsy, money is the root of power and all evil,” the former explains. “As Miss Gazelle mentioned, I value my privacy—especially in my line of work—and pulled a few strings to ensure that our conversation isn’t overheard.”

“What sort of business is that?” Eggsy inquires, much to Merlin’s soft vocal dismay.

“Business acquisition,” Valentine answers.

The young man cocks his head. “You mean corporate espionage.”

Valentine is silent for a moment, his face betraying nothing until he erupts in laughter and claps delightedly at his guest. “I like him,” he tells Merlin, nudging. “Why didn’t you bring him instead of that Lancelot?”

“Eggsy has been tied up with other things,” his mate explains.

“Chester King’s murder,” Gazelle says suddenly. She looks at Eggsy with a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa, herself. “Scotland Yard found your prints at the scene and listed you as the prime suspect, despite some inconsistencies in their case.” Reaching for her glass of water, she raises a brow. “How did you make it across London during rush hour, Mr. Unwin?”

Paling considerably, the young man swallows and shrugs. “Don’t remember much of that night, to be honest,” he admits, fidgeting in his seat. Eggsy spins the tip between his thumb and index finger as he speaks. “But I wouldn’t have done that to Chester. He was my mentor; dad’s as well.”

“He was?” Gazelle questions, her eyes shifting to Merlin. “What about Harry Hart?”

Eggsy frowns. “He was there, I suppose, but I don’t think he had much to do with me. Probably was off doin’ other things or summat. Whatever posh blokes do.” He continues to toy with the top, ignoring the stares he’s undoubtedly receiving from the others.

“So what’s the job?” he finally asks, glancing up from his totem. “That’s why we’re here right? Because you have a job.”

Valentine continues to stare as Gazelle leans over and whispers in his ear. Nodding, he pats her forearm with a fond smile. “As I told Merlin, I would like your assistance in breaking up Västergötland AB, an electronics conglomerate that specializes in clean energy. Gottfried Västergötland, the founder, is a direct competitor of the Valentine Corporation, and he’s dying.”

“Our sources say that he doesn’t have a lot of time left. A week at most,” Gazelle adds, solemnly. “Cancer.”

Eggsy leans back in his seat with a perplexed scowl. “Sounds like your problem’s bein’ taken care of, guv. Ever hear that patience is a virtue?”

“His daughter,” Gazelle continues as she slides her tablet over to him, “is Tilde Västergötland. The minute his heart stops, she becomes his heir.”

He takes the device, turning it around so that he can view the contents. On the screen is a photograph of a smiling woman who’s a bit older than him with sunny blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. The stereotypical Swedish woman: athletic, leggy, and attractive. “Sucks to be you,” Eggsy tells them. “What do you need us for? To steal corporate secrets for ya?”

“I want you to cause her to dissolve her father’s company,” Valentine lisps.

Eggsy’s stare bounces between this strange man and Merlin, trying to figure out if he’s serious. He begins to chuckle. “Good luck with that, guv!” he laughs. “You’ll need a bloody miracle or Christ himself to make that happen.”

“Or inception,” Valentine says.

His laughter stops and the tablet clattered to the surface of the table. “Ol’ wives’ tale,” Eggsy tells him. “Nothing more than a fantasy or wishful thinkin’.”

“Reality,” the American counters. He points a slim finger to Merlin. “He’s done it before.”

Eggsy stares at the Scotsman, gobsmacked. “Then he’s a lyin’ bastard and wastin’ everyone’s time,” he snaps, shoving the device towards the center of the table. “Inception is impossible! No one’s been able to do it and those who’ve tried have gone mad!”

“I’ve done it, Eggsy,” Merlin says. His fingers clasp and unclasp against each other as he looks upon the young man. “To do so is difficult, but it can be done.”

“When did you do it?” Eggsy demands. “How come you never told me?”

Merlin turns to Valentine. “I’ve gotten you a new extractor,” he says. “Is the deal still on?”

“Yes,” the client replies, still focused on Eggsy. “I am adding a provision; upon successful completion of your job, I’ll use my resources to clear Mr. Unwin’s murder charge.”

Eggsy coughs. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you want to go home?” Gazelle asks softly. “Don’t you want to be reunited with your friends instead of living in India?”

“I like it in _Goa_ , for your fuckin’ information!” he growls. Eggsy feels a rage boiling from within; the promise that Valentine is offering is nothing but lies and false hope. No one, not even Merlin, could save him from the charges made against the young man. “It’s the only home I’ve got!”

Gazelle addresses him once more. “Are you certain about that, Mr. Unwin?”

 

* * *

 

So here’s the thing about Gazelle’s imploring question: Eggsy isn’t certain.

About anything, for that matter. Not that he’s going to say anything about his doubts during a client dinner because while he’s rough, he’s not fucking stupid. So Eggsy sits through the rest of the meal, pretending to be perfectly sociable and carefree.

He fakes a good mood all the way to the departing cab, where he turns his fury and betrayal on Merlin. “What the fuck was that bird talkin’ ‘bout back there?” Eggsy snarls.

“We will discuss this later,” his friend says through gritted teeth. Leave it to Merlin not wanting to draw attention to them.

Eggsy shakes his head, eyes narrowed at the other man in a deadly fashion. “We discuss it _now_ , bruv. You tell me everythin’, includin’ why I have holes in my memory.” He jabs Merlin in the shoulder. “I _know_ you have summat to do with it. Don’t lie to me!”

Eggsy notices a flicker in his friend’s expression: discomfort, regret, some sort of unease that briefly appears before it vanishes. “At the right time,” Merlin promises in a whisper.

As the city passes them by, the young man recalls a time when his father explained the idea. “Inception,” Lee had said. “An idea that is like a virus - resilient, highly contagious. The smallest seed of an idea can grow just by putting it there. It can grow to define or destroy you.”

It destroyed his father in the end like all impossible things do.

Later that night, under an unfamiliar sky in an unfamiliar city, Chester makes an appearance in Eggsy’s dreams.

His deceased mentor is wont to do this from time to time and is wearing a suit of black as dense as a moonless night. So dark and foreboding that it would frighten anyone else. Perched upon his regal nose is a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, sitting low enough to reveal the faded blue irises of his eyes, offset by his snow-white hair.

A chuckle bubbles up in his throat as he realizes how much Chester keeps up with the same traditions from life—from the elegant attire to the firm, yet fond expression on his aged face.

Their interactions are stilted, and in his marrow, the young man knows that this is terribly different from when his mentor was alive. Eggsy reckons it has to do with the guilt he harbors for not knowing whether or not he’s responsible for Chester’s murder.

It’s not like the man is going to tell him and he sure as hell ain’t gonna ask.

His mentor’s ornate office—fitting for a lord or duke—is comprised of mahogany panels and embossed hunter green wallpaper. Despite the various legalities associated with their business, Chester was adamant that they kept up the appearance of a legitimate front.

Their base of operations was out of an old tailor’s shop that was last remodeled sometime during the late nineteenth century. Everything is the same as it had always been when Chester was alive: the heavy wooden furniture, plush chairs and settees, and a decanter of brandy upon a sterling silver tray in the center of a rectangular table.

“You still have this?” the young man questions, leaning over to inspect the glass decanter.

“It’s tradition,” his mentor tells him from the head of the table. “One must keep traditions, even in dreams, young man.”

Eggsy smirks at him. “Even if the brandy tastes like shit?”

“Even so,” Chester says, inclining his head to nod gracefully. “I’ll have you know that the brandy in this decanter was taken from Napoléon Bonaparte’s personal stores in 1815.”

The young man wrinkles his nose at this new information. “No wonder it tastes rank! Bein’ used passed its expiration date, guv!”

“Tradition,” Chester continues as he ignores the comment with a quick scowl, “is what keeps order. It’s what keeps us together, even in dreams.”

The young man’s smirk fades. “Well, it’s just us in this dream.”

“It’s _never_ just us, Eggsy,” his mentor replies. “A shadow is here amongst your thoughts and projections, biding its time until it’s ready to strike. Such as the man you see.”

“I don’t know him.”

Chester tilts his head as a slow smile creeps across his lips. “Are you certain about that?” He studies Eggsy from his seat, watching his movement with sharp eyes that leave the young man feeling unsettled. “You have the feeling that you’ve seen him before and not just in your subconscious. I can tell by the way you chew on the inside of your cheek.”

“Do not,” Eggsy spits out as he ceases the action Chester described. His shoulders slump in defeat as he looks around the room and a strange feeling settles into his gut. Something about the action is familiar; deja vu.

The old man watches, his smile brightening as Eggsy acclimates to his surroundings. “You’re thinking to yourself that we’ve had this discussion before, or one like it, at the very least,” Chester offers.

“I don’t know what to think anymore, to be honest,” the young man admits. “My mind’s been fuzzy for a while. Like someone’s gone and riffled through it.”

Chester frowns at his confession but says nothing to admonish him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Sittin’ in this room,” Eggsy says with certainty. “And chattin’ with you.”

The old man rises out of his seat, beckoning him to follow as he leaves the room. They come into the hallway where Eggsy catches a glimpse of a shadow disappearing around the corner. “Did you see that?”

He nods, patting Chester’s forearm as Eggsy moves ahead. “Go back into your office. I’ll check it out, yeah?”

Eggsy doesn’t wait for his mentor’s reply and hurries along the dimly lit corridor. Footsteps sound on the floor, always out of reach, yet guiding his way through the maze of hallways. He catches another glimpse of the shadow’s appearance, noting a sliver of pinstripe material of a trouser leg.

There is something awfully familiar about it and bothers Eggsy as he continues to follow the shadow until he finds himself at the back door of Chester’s office. It’s ajar, concealing his presence while allowing Eggsy to see inside. Creeping closer, he notices two figures whose features are concealed by unnatural darkness save for the gun one of them is holding.

Just as the weapon is fired into the skull of one of the shadows, Eggsy steps inside with the door creaking with his movements. The executioner turns towards him wearing a pair of glasses gleaming menacingly as a pool of blood spreads below the soles of their shoes.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up screaming Chester’s name, panicked and distressed.

The sound rips from his vocal chords as Eggsy sits up in bed, fighting against the bed linens tangled around his limbs. They pull tighter as he struggles until a car horn honks on the street below and the young man realizes that he’s in a hotel room.

Struggling to swallow, Eggsy squints into the darkness where he can make out the shapes of furniture in the poor lighting. It’s unfamiliar to him, like many things, and causes him to reach for his totem on the bedside table. Flicking on the lamp, he spins the top and watches it until it dances off the solid surface and onto the floor.

“Real,” he whispers, voice still shaking from the nightmare. Eggsy palms his face, breathing in deep as his mind settles back into the conscious world, not the strange in-between he was in moments before. Alone, he has no one to latch onto, not to assure him that he’s safe.

Eggsy gets out of bed and decides to shower to soothe the rest of his frayed nerves rather than his usual run on the beach. He doesn’t know Tokyo well and reckons that Merlin would be pissed if his extractor got lost.

Or worse—arrested.

It would serve Merlin right, holding out on the big secret he’s been keeping from Eggsy. He hates not remembering what happened in London, hates it more than words can describe. His mind feels as if it’s been picked apart and reconstructed at the leisure of someone else.

Like a part of him is missing—something dear to him and it leaves him empty. Perhaps that’s why he’s visited by a strange man in his dreams, to make up for what he’s lacking. Yet here he is in a hotel room, waiting for his next instructions on this job and a way to fill the hole in his person.

A job that could very well lead him home or push him into a freefall. Either way, it provides Eggsy with solid ground, which is more than dreams can give him.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Eggsy finds himself in an abandoned warehouse with both friends and strangers.

He shakes Percival’s hand, noting the distinct odor of brandy lingering around his person before moving onto Professor Arnold, a twitchy and portly man in his early sixties who refuses to touch anyone without wearing a pair of leather gloves. Eggsy reckons how much of a real professor this bloke is; he’s so damn jumpy all the time that a mouse fart would probably send Arnold into a mental breakdown.

Situated near a table are two young folks that Eggsy has never met before. The bird looks too much like Percival not to be related to him, with her light brown hair and eyes. She’s classically pretty in a Kate Middleton sort of way and probably capable of punching someone’s lights out.

The bloke is one of those posh fucks who hang out in Mayfair and flash their money about. Narrow-faced and smirking, he could be considered handsome, Eggsy supposes, if one was drunk and squinted a bit.

The way they look at him, it’s strange. He cannot place their expressions from his catalog of memories, though it disappears as quickly as it came.

“And these two are Roxanne Morton, Percival’s sister, and Charlie Hesketh,” Merlin introduces. “Our architect and point man, respectively.”

Eggsy extends his hand to the former and gives her a smile. “Eggsy Unwin,” he says.

“Call me Roxy,” she replies, her eyes sizing him up. “Unwin? That’s not a name you hear every day.”

Charlie interrupts, pushing his hand into Eggsy’s orbit. “You’re the chap who offed Chester King. Is that where they dug you up? Cell block B?”

“Fuck off, Charlie,” Roxy snaps, her brows furrowing into a scowl.

“Just making conversation, Ms. Morton,” Charlie tells her with a smug grin on his gob. “Right, Eggy?”

Eggsy clears his throat. “It’s _Eggsy_ ,” he corrects, shaking and letting go of Charlie’s hand as quickly as possible. “And I didn’t off no one; it’s all bullshite Scotland Yard came up with.”

The other young man raises his brows. “Because they have nothing better to do than to frame some chap from the slums?”

“His father was Lee Unwin,” Roxy retorts, giving Charlie a good, hard shove. “One of the best architects in the business, you arsehole!”

“Then what’s he doing here when we already have you?” the berk asks.

Eggsy crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m your extractor, bruv.” He delights in the uncomfortable expression that crawls over Charlie’s face at this bit of news.

“Touchy,” the point man mumbles before stalking off to harass Arnold.

Roxy scoffs in Charlie’s direction, rolling her eyes when she turns back to Eggsy. “Don’t mind him,” she says. “Charlie isn’t good at making new friends.”

Eggsy follows the chap’s retreat and deadpans, “Wonder why that is?” He looks at Roxy, grinning. “Blokes like ‘im are a dime a dozen. Dealin’ with it is nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“You seem sure of that,” the young woman tells him, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Bein’ an extractor makes other things seem a bit easier is all.” Eggsy removes his hoodie, folding it neatly on the table. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?” Roxy asks.

Eggsy shrugs. “For not askin’ whether I killed Chester or not,” he answers, fiddling with his zipper. “Most people do or they look at me like I did.”

A hand touches his shoulder, soft, delicate, and meant to comfort. “My brother has only said good things about you,” Roxy explains. “He is a fairly good judge of character.”

“His taste in alcohol is lackin’.”

She giggles. “He gets that from our dad. Neither of them can pass up a good brandy.”

An hour into being at the warehouse, Valentine shows up with Gazelle in tow. He’s wearing a variety of orange this time, looking more like a hazmat suit than a man of style, with a matching baseball cap. His assistant is wearing a tasteful black pencil skirt and grey blouse, a stark contrast to her employer.

They are introduced to the rest of the team, Richmond Valentine loud as usual and talks excitedly to each person while slinging an arm around them. Gazelle follows with a demure handshake and few words when she isn’t typing on her tablet.

Eggsy feels a bit sorry for Professor Arnold, who seems to wilt when he’s hugged by their odd client. He hears Charlie stifle his laughter at the spectacle until it’s turned to him; only then does the other young man grimace as Valentine hangs on him like their old mates.

Merlin corrals everyone after speaking with Gazelle. “Listen up,” he says loudly to turn all attention to him. “Mr. Västergötland expired thirty minutes ago.”

“How the fuck did you find that out?” Eggsy balks. His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline as his glances at a very pleased Gazelle. “Bloody hell!”

His hears the Scotsman clear his throat. “Thank you for that eloquent exclamation, Mr. Unwin. Now, we have exactly seventy-two hours to formulate a plan to infiltrate Ms. Västergötland’s mind.” Merlin opens a laptop, which he sets on the table.

“Why seventy-two hours?” Roxy inquires.

“The amount of time it will take for our target to acquire the clearance to fly her father’s body back to London,” Charlie tells her quite smugly.

Merlin points to the young man. “Correct,” he says. “We need to make sure that we are on that flight. Ms. Gazelle is monitoring Ms. Västergötland’s activities, so we will know the moment she purchases her plane tickets.”

“You’ll need to make sure she’s boardin’ a 747,” Eggsy interjects.

Charlie makes a face when he turns. “Why is that, Eggy?”

“Because in a 747, the pilot’s up top, and the first class cabin is in the nose,” Eggsy snaps. “We need to make sure no one walks on through, yeah?” He turns to Merlin, still scowling, and catches a glimpse of Valentine leaning over to whisper into Gazelle’s ear. “We’ll have to buy out the entire cabin. And the first class flight attendant…”

Merlin nods. “Easy enough…”

“We bought the airline,” Valentine interrupts, not even blinking when everyone turns to stare at him and Gazelle, who is busy finalizing the transaction. He shrugs as he leans back in his seat. “It seemed neater.”

Eggsy and Merlin exchange a look, each of them thinking the same thing: so it begins.

 

* * *

 

The plan is simple; the best ones usually are, as it turns out.

Eggsy will chat up the grieving Tilde Västergötland while they sit next to each other on the twelve-hour flight back to London before dosing her with Arnold’s sedative. All of the team will be linked up to the Professor’s chemicals that will ensure their entry into Tilde’s mind and plunge through each layer.

“She will remember his face, though,” Charlie points out.

“We want her to remember me, bruv,” Eggsy counters as he paces by him. “Tilde Västergötland isn’t some dumb blonde; she has been trained to fight against extractors. If I am able to build up camaraderie with her prior to infiltration, the easier it will be for her to trust me.”

Charlie looks impressed. “And the easier it will be to plant the idea of breaking up her father’s company.”

“What’s her relationship with him like?” Roxy asks as she sets a black and white photograph of their target on the table.

Percival snorts. “The usual crap relationship a mogul has with their children, especially because Tilde wasn’t a treasured male.”

“But she is close with his advisor and her godfather, Björn Alström,” Merlin tells them. He claps Eggsy on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll know how to worm your way in with her.”

The young man chuckles. “Not quite, bruv,” he replies, waving her file. “Tilde has an inclination for both sexes.” He looks at Charlie with a grin. “Particularly blonde females. English Rose types.”

“I like her already,” the point man states, gleeful at this bit of information, which earns a positively disgusted look from Roxy.

Valentine clears his throat. “There’s just one more thing,” he says while holding up a single finger. “I want to go in with you.”

Well, fuck if that isn’t a plot twist.

Eggsy, Charlie and Roxy decide to seek refuge in a sake bar while Merlin and Gazelle to convince Valentine just how much of a bad idea that is.

The three of them sit at the bar, each nursing their own bottles in silence until Roxy speaks up from Eggsy’s other side. “What is a kick?”

“This,” he says, kicking the remaining legs of Charlie’s bar stool that are on the ground, “would be a kick.” He laughs as the other young man yells in surprise and steadies himself despite flailing arms.

Charlie straightens his jacket once he’s composed himself, muttering, “Wanker.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” Eggsy snickers into his sake cup.

“You know how Merlin assigned himself, the Professor, and Percival to generate the dreaming layers?” Charlie questions, to which Roxy nods. “They will also stay behind to set up the kick—the movement that will awaken the rest of us who’ve entered another layer.”

Realization is a good look on her face. “I get it,” Roxy declares, leaning in to whisper to her team members. “That’s why Professor Arnold will drive off the bridge in the first layer, followed by Merlin using the elevator, and so on.”

“Exactly,” the other young man says, pouring himself another drink. “Because Arnold’s sedatives are able to stabilize us in the dreamscape, we won’t wake up like you usually do. But be careful not to actually die because you’ll end up in Limbo.”

Roxy makes a face. “Like Eggsy’s dad, right?”

“Right,” the extractor sighs, staring at his cup. “Like my dad.” He nudges the architect with a grin. “I suspect you have more to live for than he did, luv.”

Charlie drinks down his sake. “Did you ever find out why he did it?” he asks carefully. “Why your dad went to Limbo?”

“He wanted to be with my mum,” Eggsy tells him. “Reality wasn’t worth much without her and infinite, raw subconscious seemed like a better option.”

His two drinking partners look at him with sympathetic eyes. Charlie pats his shoulder, giving the joint a squeeze as Roxy orders them more sake. “Sorry ‘bout your dad,” he tells Eggsy. “That’s shitty, mate.”

Eggsy is surprised by Charlie’s reaction, having already guessed him to be a first-rate arsehole. “Thanks,” he stammers over the sound of a waiter pouring more sake into their glasses. He narrows his eyes at the other young man, inspecting him in the dim light of the bar. “You’re not as much of a twat that I thought you were.”

“Aren’t I full of surprises, hm?” Charlie jokes once he’s done laughing.

The reply seemingly stabs Eggsy through the heart, though he’s unsure as to why. It startles him and causes the young man to freeze momentarily, waiting out the emotional pain until it fades.

“Eggsy?” Roxy questions, giving him a gentle shake. “Are you alright?”

He lifts his eyes from the sake cup resting against his palm and blinks away his confusion. “Um, yes,” Eggsy lies. “Just a bit jetlagged.”

The three of them continue drinking in silence, each person pretending. It’s what they’re good at anyway.

 

* * *

 

Gazelle is an absolute blessing.

She manages to convince Valentine not to join them in their mind heist. How she does this will forever be a secret and Eggsy is perfectly fine with that, though there is a catch.

There is _always_ a catch.

“Gazelle will be joining us,” Merlin announces the following morning and without the standard sarcasm that Eggsy knows all too well.

It seems that she has experience with the dreamscape, though Eggsy takes it upon himself to help her brush up on the basics. Once they are hooked up to the machine, they wander through the ruins of Pompeii, a tropical jungle with lavender waters, and an unnamed city that could be mistaken for Paris, Rome, or Berlin.

Gazelle knows that it’s dangerous to dream up a real location as her mind’s projections can turn on her. It’s no small relief that Eggsy doesn’t have to explain this to her.

He sends her back to reality with a message to tell Merlin that he’s going to a linger for a bit and watches her body fade from sight.

Gazelle’s cityscape changes to a bedroom washed out by natural sunlight. He takes a step inside, listening to the floorboards creak under his trainers and looks around as his surroundings come into plain view.

The room is a study of creams with dashes of white, navy, and beige. It’s certainly not boring, as the palette can typically be, and reminds Eggsy of a place that’s comfortable, noble even. The contents of the bedroom are not something that Eggsy would expect in his own, a mixture of antiquity and the current era. The furniture, save for the upholstered headboard and armchair near the window, is comprised of heavy wood and carefully chosen by its owner.

He holds out a hand to run his palm over the top of a down comforter, feeling the soft texture against his skin and finds it strange that he’s in his room.

“You don’t like it?” the stranger asks. He emerges from another door while cleaning his glasses against the fabric of his jumper—a bathroom, perhaps.

Eggsy shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says, looking around. “I never imagined a place like this.”

“Like what?” The stranger is walking towards him, sauntering his hips in the most tantalizing way. “Like a bedroom?”

He’s teasing and Eggsy knows it. “Like a posh bedroom,” the young man replies. His eyes follow the stranger’s movements as he goes to sit on the mattress and leans back invitingly. Eggsy chuckles at him. “I see what you’re interested in, yeah.”

“Come here,” the stranger beckons, tilting his head just so. The light catches onto the warmth of his brown eyes and the hollow of his dimples.

Eggsy goes to him, keeping himself within arm’s reach. “This isn’t usually how we start out,” he confesses.

“Variation is the spice of life,” the man tells him as he reaches forward to grasp Eggsy’s hips. He knits his brows together in concentration, studying the young man’s body very carefully. Looking up, he grins. “Still the same lovely young man.”

He finds himself grinning back. “Were you expectin’ someone else, guv?”

“No one worth mentioning,” the stranger replies. “And certainly no one I want naked.”

Eggsy huffs a laugh. “Was it your boss or summat?” The man shrugs as he lifts the hem of the young man’s shirt and bends forward to kiss a bit of exposed skin. “My boss is a bit of an ol’ coot. Nice enough chap, though, even if he’s always wearin’ suits like armor.”

“A suit is the modern gentleman's armor,” the stranger says distractedly. He is looking at the trail of fine hairs that disappears under the waist of Eggsy’s trousers. Clever fingers unfasten the young man’s belt, followed by the button hidden under it.

“Well, I ain’t no gentleman,” Eggsy assures with a chuckle. He watches the stranger push his trousers down his body, revealing his boxer briefs. “Clearly, you ain’t one either.”

The man glances at him. “Most certainly not,” he states heatedly. “I pride myself on my perversions.”

“I bet,” Eggsy snorts. Lips press against his stomach, resting on the skin like a prayer. “Can I tell you somethin’?”

“Of course,” the stranger says, guiding Eggsy to sit beside him. His hands never leave the young man’s body and twine their fingers together. “You never need to ask, my darling.”

Eggsy nods with uncertainty written all over his face and swallows before speaking. “I feel like somethin’ ain’t right,” he admits. “I’m workin’ a job with my mate, Merlin, and it seems as if there are holes I can’t fill.”

“Holes?”

“Yeah. Parts of my memory, they ain’t where they should be,” Eggsy says, inching closer to the man’s embrace. “I feel like someone’s pulled the wool over my face and lyin’ to me.”

The stranger cocks his head, obviously concerned. “Lying to you?”

“Merlin told our client he’s done inception,” the young man explains, shaking his head. He snorts. “But he never told me until that night, yeah? Wouldn’t tell me when or how or why I can’t remember things, told me that we would discuss it at the proper time.” He turns to the stranger. “When is the proper time though? All we have is limited amounts of time. Or in my case, an infinite loop of holes.”

The man, his lover, caresses his cheek with the side of his thumb. “There is never a right time, darling, for all it stretches out before us.”

“I wish Chester was still ‘ere,” Eggsy grumbles, closing his eyes. “He’d know what to do.”

The sound of metal hitting the floor startles both men out of their joint reverie. They turn towards the origin of the noise, a small toy top that is the twin of Eggsy’s totem. It spins indefinitely, dancing on the wooden floorboards like a ballerina.

Gracefully spinning on and on and on.

“Not real,” Eggsy whispers, unable to take his eyes away from the display. An itch crawls over his skin, the physical sign that he knows they were not alone a moment ago.

The man touches his chin and turns his face to look upon it. “It was real,” he says. “A long time ago. We can make it real again, my darling.”

“How long do we have?” Eggsy asks, parting his lips for his lover’s.

“As long as you need.”

 

* * *

 

“He was there, Merlin! I saw him!”

The voice is coming from a great distance, though as Eggsy comes out of the dreamscape he is able to discern its ownership.

“I’m not hallucinating!” Roxy shouts after a person’s muffled reply. It’s strange to hear one side of an argument, but be able to identify the seething rage in the young woman’s voice.

She is walking now, undoubtedly chasing after someone. “It was Harry,” Roxy insists, grabbing the other person to get them to stop moving. “Will you sit still? I _saw_ Harry Hart, Merlin.”

The other person speaks; their words are lost upon Eggsy. They are vibrations in the air, neither important nor definable. He listens to the heavy footfalls that follow and begin pacing against the cement floors of the warehouse. “Are you certain?” Merlin asks.

“I only was able to get a quick glance before the projection noticed me, but it was him,” Roxy says, breathlessly.

Merlin clears his throat. “Shit,” he mumbles as he begins pacing again. “Shit!”

“I thought you took care of it,” Percival states.

“I thought I did, too,” Merlin answers, dumbfounded.

Charlie speaks up next, sounding just as confused as Eggsy feels. “What does that mean then?”

“That Eggsy’s memories of Harry are too powerful for the likes of inception,” Roxy snaps.

His eyes fly open as soon as the words leave her mouth. Eggsy sits up in the recliner, gasping loudly as the warehouse comes into view. “What?” he yells, surveying the four others. “What the fuck?”

“Oh bollocks,” Roxy intones, holding her hands to her mouth.

Eggsy rips the line from the inside of his elbow, not caring if the puncture wound starts to bleed and stain his shirt. “What the fuck is she talkin’ ‘bout, bruv?” he demands as Merlin tries to push him back into the seat. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

“Calm down,” Merlin orders. He’s in that even tone that always drives Eggsy mad. With a firm grip on his shoulders, Merlin is able to keep him in place. 

He struggles against him anyways. “Why the fuck were you in my head?” he snarls at Roxy, lunging in her direction only to be shoved back into the seat.

“Eggsy,” Merlin says.

“Don’t you know common decency?” Eggsy continues on, his fury getting the best of him. “Goin’ into a stranger’s head without permission!” He grabs onto Merlin’s forearms, digging his fingers into the material of his jumper and not caring if he ruins the fabric. “And why is she talkin’ ‘bout Harry Hart and me? I barely know ‘im! Fuck, I barely know you lot!”

Merlin gives him a good shake. “Eggsy,” he repeats, leveling his gaze. In the faint reflection of the older man’s glasses, he can see his own face and its terrified expression. “You knew Harry Hart. You knew him quite well.”

“What?” he rasps, trembling. “No. You’ve got it wrong!”

“That’s what I wanted you to think,” Merlin says. “That’s what _you_ told me to do.”

Eggsy deflates, practically collapsing into Merlin’s body. “What?”

“Roxy and Charlie, you’ve known them for years,” he explains. “Their presence in your life is associated with memories of Harry; the three of you trained together.” Merlin purses his lips together, trying to find the words to continue. “Chester King…”

“…was my mentor,” Eggsy interjects.

Merlin shakes his head. “No,” he intones. “Chester King was our boss, but Harry recruited you right after your father died. He was your mentor, the one who gave you your totem…your partner.”

Eggsy notices as tears wet Merlin’s eyes and pool at his water line. “You loved each other… _so much_ ,” his friend continues in a trembling voice. “So much, Eggsy. It was only a matter of time before he asked you to marry him. He wanted to wait until the New Year, but Harry told me that he was planning on doing it soon. Once the Prince job was complete, he was going to tell Chester that he would be retiring.”

Merlin goes to push up his glasses and thumbs away freshly fallen tears. “But Chester didn’t want to lose his best asset and insisted that Harry was throwing his life away,” he says.

“But Chester,” Eggsy whispers.

“Chester King hated you just as he hated your father.”

 

* * *

 

The story is unraveled over the course of hours once Eggsy is partially able to get over the shock of Merlin’s words.

Some of the events—such as meeting Merlin, Harry, and Chester—he remembers, though some of the details vary. It had been Harry who approached Eggsy shortly after Lee’s funeral. He had found the young man still standing in front of his father’s grave, despite the downfall of rain and that everyone was long gone by then. Harry offered Eggsy a pint and took him to a pub to chat.

“What did we talk about?” he asks Merlin while he tries desperately to remember. Panic seizes him, causing his body to shake hard enough to rattle his bones.

Merlin runs his hands up and down the length of Eggsy’s arms, bringing him back down. “He told you stories of your dad; from when we were younger. Before your mum passed.”

He doesn’t say it, but Eggsy knows he means: when Lee wasn’t a shell of himself, when he was happy and when life was good for them.

Harry drove Eggsy back to a too-quiet flat and left him his business card with a promise to help if the young man should need it. It took some weeks for him to gather up the nerve to phone the older man, a mysterious friend of his father’s whom he never spoke of. He did it from his dormitory where he should have been studying if Eggsy could muster up the energy to concentrate.

As he swore, Harry came to his rescue and assisted Eggsy in moving back to London where he and Merlin told the young man of his father’s job.

The pieces fell into place and piqued his interested, though Chester hadn’t been certain that Eggsy had potential. Despite their employer’s misgivings, they put the young man through a series of tests in order to score his aptitude.

Merlin admits he and Harry had hoped that Eggsy would have followed in his father’s footsteps as an architect. “While you held great talent for it, it was clear you were meant to be an extractor,” Merlin explains. “The things your mind could do was astounding. Neither of us had seen anything like it and even Chester had to admit it would have been a crime not to train you.”

So begins the tireless hours of learning and understanding the dreamscape, where Eggsy had been introduced to Charlie and Roxy. The former and he started off on the wrong foot in the beginning, though over time they formed a close friendship.

“I adored you immediately,” Roxy assures, interrupting Merlin’s monologue with a shy smile. She and Charlie are seated on a worn-out couch, listening to events they remember. The latter nudges her with his elbow, to which she rolls her eyes. “Charlie and you…that was a work in progress for several years.”

He doesn’t ask what changed because it’s not like Eggsy would remember it anyhow. “Why don’t I remember them?”

“Your memories of Harry were closely aligned to both Roxy and Charlie,” Merlin tells him. “When you asked me for my help, you knew about the risks involved.”

“But why?” Eggsy whispers as frightened tears fall down his cheeks.

The metallic tang of silence fills the room, causing the atmosphere to become heavy with burden. Merlin looks stricken by the question, almost like he doesn’t want to answer it. It dawns upon Eggsy that his friend has been dreading this very moment from the time the young man asked the impossible.

“The Prince job was never completed. Chester had called you in for a meeting to pay you off,” Merlin says with bitterness in his voice. “He thought that money could persuade you to leave Harry. Chester believed that you were an opportunist and just using Harry, but you _loved_ him. So deeply and he could have been a pauper for all you cared.” He cups the younger man’s cheek. “You were entirely devoted to him from the very beginning.”

He has no recollection of the start of their relationship, only what Merlin tells him. It had been a steady progression from mentor and protégé to lovers.

“You were twenty,” Merlin explains. “Harry was always quite fond of you and you were besotted by him. Anyone with eyes could see it.” He laughs in remembrance before the sound dies. “Chester warned him that you would leave for someone younger, but Harry was a stubborn arsehole. He knew you better than any of us, he told him. It was true enough for all the time you spent together.”

And they fell in love.

So wonderfully and deeply in love that Eggsy moved in with Harry before the year was out. They ran mind heists all over the world, always doing them together and with fantastic results.

Not even the dourest could naysay their teamwork, save for Chester, who felt that Harry had slighted him by pursuing a relationship with Eggsy.

A man without a prestige pedigree or familial connections. Never mind the young man’s talent; he would never be worthy in Chester’s eyes.

It all came to a head one February morning—Valentine’s Day, to be exact—when Chester called Eggsy in for a meeting. There he handed the young man an envelope with a cashier’s cheque and told him that he hoped it would be enough.

“You began yelling while you shredded the cheque,” Charlie says, having been waiting for him outside. “You told Chester that he was a right bastard for thinking you could be bought off. That he had the gall to think so little of you and how he deserved to rot.”

Eggsy nods numbly. His heart breaks as the truth about a man he viewed as his mentor and father figure is revealed. A man whose advice he sought in dreams and filled his head with wisdom when Eggsy felt lost.

It hadn’t been him, but a man who’s only a vague recollection.

“You stormed out of his office and went straight back to the house. I had to drive because you were shaking so badly; you could have caused a wreck given the state you were in,” Charlie continues. “As soon as you saw Harry, you told him what had happened and I confirmed it. A soft breeze could have knocked him over.”

Charlie recalls how Eggsy began to apologize unnecessarily for ruining everything and how he was going to do whatever it took to make things right. “You went to leave, but Harry stopped you. He told us to stay right in the house and that he’d sort it out.”

Harry went to Chester’s office full of betrayal and rage, but he was always a gentleman and wanted to discuss the matter as such.

“Something about him going off alone didn’t sit right with you, so we went back. Phoned Rox and Merlin on the way over,” Charlie says, casting an uncomfortable glance at the former. She reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze as a tight smile curls her lips. “As we walked inside that’s when we heard the gunshot.”

Eggsy took off in a run and left the others behind, calling Harry’s name until he stumbled upon the scene in Chester’s office: of the old bastard lying on the ground as he frothed at the mouth and an empty brandy glass just beyond his fingertips.

He had picked it up, not noticing the morbid smile upon Chester’s lips until he saw where Harry’s body had fallen as blood pooled from a neat bullet hole in his skull.

“We heard the screams,” Roxy whispers, digging her fingers into Charlie’s hand. “Merlin got there first and was pulling you off of Chester by the time Charlie and I came in. You were hysterical and by then, Chester was dead.”

In death, he managed to frame Eggsy for his suicide. The young man’s fingerprints were all over the glass of brandy and witnesses heard their row earlier in the day. Chester had been meticulous in his planning, ensuring that the security footage would be mysterious missing and managed to destroy two lives in the wake of his demise.

Inconsolable, Eggsy was ushered to the country estate of Charlie’s parents under a shroud of secrecy while Percival and Roxy dealt with the mess in London. There he asked Merlin to do the impossible; to make him forget the anguish of losing Harry so he wouldn’t become his father.

“I did what you asked,” Merlin admits. His eyes are red and tired. “ _We_ did what you asked; you and me. I gifted you with the notion that Harry Hart was no more important than a fleeting memory, a ghost of someone you’ve met before but didn’t recall. In turn, you lost memories and gained new ones. People disappeared from your life and emerged as others. Harry’s guidance became Chester’s and the man you see in your dreams…he was just a stranger.”

He shudders at the knowledge of what he has done. “Then undo it!” Eggsy begs.

“It’s nearly impossible,” Merlin says. “We would have to descend into Limbo…there’s no way knowing if we’d ever make it out, Eggsy.”

The young man whimpers, his distress growing at an alarming rate. “But Roxy said she saw him,” Eggsy insists, albeit weakly. He looks into his friend’s eyes, uncaring of the tears and snot on his face. “Harry’s the man in my dreams, isn’t he? It’s him.”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “It seems that your connection to Harry is too strong to fully break. Even though you don’t remember your relationship, there is a part of you that’s tucked it away.”

The feelings that swirl through his being threatens to overwhelm Eggsy. They crawl at his insides, twisting and churning as a sob bubbles up from the depths of his throat. “I…I don’t…”

“Eggsy,” his friend soothes, brushing a tear from the young man’s cheek. “You believed that what we were doing would be the best course of action.”

He sucks in a breath. “But what we did…” he rasps, unable to continue.

“There’s more,” Merlin tells him. In retrospect, Eggsy doesn’t understand why he never saw it coming—there’s _always_ more, especially in their line of work. “Harry is alive.”

 

* * *

 

He stands at the water, breathing in the salty sea air.

It’s late and very few people are around; in fact, Eggsy thinks it’s only him and Roxy, who followed him from the warehouse like a shadow. She lingers several meters from him, giving him enough space to process all he’s been told while still being able to keep an eye on him.

Absently, Eggsy is quite impressed with Roxy’s athletic ability to keep up with him as he ran through the city. His body aches from it now, leaving his shins and thighs with a burn from overuse. He’s surprised he didn’t collapse once he made to the end of the pier.

Or from news that the man in his dreams who has taken over his thoughts is real and alive. As soon as Merlin told him, Eggsy took off, unable to hear the rest of the story. Panic had gripped him so fervently that the only reaction he had was to run.

To run until everything hurt, until he could escape.

But Eggsy isn’t about to jump into Tokyo Bay.

“I’m surprised you ain’t mad at me,” he comments to Roxy. Eggsy keeps his eyes on the dark horizon when she comes up alongside him and leans against the pier.

Roxy stands still, following his gaze as her fingers unconsciously pick at the wood. “I was for a while,” she admits. “But I think I was more upset at the situation, rather than at you. I couldn’t understand why Chester had to do what he did or why Merlin agreed to inception.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and shrugs. “I always wondered if there was something that could have been done to change the results of that day. If you took Chester’s money and told Harry before you cashed the cheque to use it for your wedding. Or if Harry never went to his office.”

“Or if I went with him,” Eggsy adds.

“Then you’d probably be dead,” she says, their eyes finally meeting. Roxy quirks her lips and moves closer to him, her arm brushing against his. “If I’ve learned anything from this mess, it’s not to dwell on what could have been.”

Eggsy nods, his eyes falling back to the water to watch the waves lapping at the pier. “Does he know what I did? Harry, I mean.”

“He does,” Roxy answers. “By the time we were able to tell Merlin that Harry was alive, the deed was already done and Scotland Yard believed that you murdered Chester. You were in bad shape and the decision to bring you to India was made. Harry wanted to join you eventually.”

“Oh,” Eggsy whispers.

Roxy slips her arm through hollow his own creates and rests her head against Eggsy’s shoulder. “He still lives in your house,” she tells him. “And waters the plants in the first-floor window sills—daisies. You preferred them over roses.”  
  
“I don’t remember,” he intones as tears begin to burn his eyes once more. With his free arm, Eggsy wipes his face using his sleeve. “He’s waited all this time…just puttin’ his life on hold because of me.”

Roxy nods. “He does it because he loves you.”

“But he hasn’t seen me in ages and I don’t even remember him.” Warm tears fall down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. “Waitin’ for someone who doesn’t you exist; it’s barkin’ mad is what it is!”

She snorts at this. “It’s how you and Harry worked—the two of you were absolutely mad about each other,” Roxy tells him. “And clearly your subconscious held onto that.”

“Clearly,” he echoes, distracted by the prospect of the next time he’ll see Harry either in dreams or in the flesh. Will the projection of this man—his lover, his partner—undo the damage Eggsy has done to himself? “What if we are able to plant the idea of splitting up Tilde Västergötland and I go back to England, what will happen to us? Harry and me? He’ll remember all these things about our relationship and I’ll be a blank slate.”

Roxy holds onto him just a bit tighter. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

 

* * *

 

Everything starts off as planned.

Tilde Västergötland is shoved into the van driven by the Professor and promptly “kidnapped” by the team, though she is unsure of it until they arrive at a warehouse. Eggsy feels a bit bad when he takes her into a dingy room where Charlie’s projection of Björn Alström sits, looking a bit worse for wears.

He listens over the microphone speaker to their arguing. Most of it is in Swedish, which Gazelle is able to translate for them, though there are points where Tilde switches to English.

“Those bastards have been at me for two days,” Charlie tells her in Alström’s voice. He hisses in pain as Tilde touches his bruises and cuts. “They have someone with access to your father’s office, and they’re trying to open the safe. They thought he would have told me the combination, but I don’t know it.”

She curses. “Well, neither do I.”

“What?” Alström rasps. “I thought Gottfried told you. He said that when he passed, you’d be the only one able to open it!”

Tilde draws a sharp inhale. “No,” she says. “He never gave me a combination.”

“Are you certain, Tilde? Maybe he did and you just didn’t realize it at the time?”

“Well, what then?”

Silence follows as Charlie comes up with a subtle way to extract information. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps something meaningful - a set of numbers based on time you spent with him?”

Tilde’s laughter erupts, filling the room. It goes on for a bit until she is able to calm herself. “You must be joking, Uncle Björn! Papa and I didn’t spend any time together, nothing to mention have anything meaningful between us.”

“Well, perhaps after your mother died,” Alström offers.

She scoffs. “After mama died, do you know what he said to me? ‘Tilde, there’s nothing to be said.’”

“He was bad with emotion.”

“I was sixteen.”

After some debate, Merlin and Eggsy decide to go forth with the next phase of their plan, which is to move Tilde to the next level. Percival and Roxy go into the room while the others prepare the transfer in the vehicle Professor Arnold has dreamt up.

It’s a van that Eggsy likens to ones used by skeevy types of blokes, pale blue paint that’s rusted in some spots and tinted windows. The inside even smells off.

Tilde and the projection of Alström are forced inside just as the real subconscious bodyguards come. They sit next to each other in a tense silence until Eggsy hears Alström whispering to the mark about the contents of the will. Most of it is too low for him to hear, as are most important conversations, but he inches closer to make out the last bit.

“They said that the will splits the component businesses of Västergötland AB,” he says. “It’d be the entire empire as we know it.”

She raises a brow. “And destroy my whole inheritance,” Tilde mutters. “Why would he suggest that, hrm?”

“He loved you, Tilde,” he says. “In his own way.”

She rolls her eyes, having heard this before. From nannies, from relatives, from friends—all of them trying to assure this young woman that her absent father had cared for her. “In his own way,” she mutters, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “At the end, he called me to his bedside. Papa could barely speak, but he took the trouble to tell me one last thing. I leaned in close and the only word I could make out was _disappointed_.”

Alström has nothing to contribute and slumps into his seat.

Eggsy turns back to Tilde, viewing her elegant profile as the van rushes through the city. They have a lot in common, more than she realizes. Both have lost their mothers, only to lose their fathers in the process. The love they needed while growing up was gone, having died along with the first parent.

 _Strange what life does to us_ , he thinks to himself as Professor Arnold comes upon the bridge and hits the trigger for the sedative. As he falls deeper into the dreamscape, Eggsy hears the crash of an automobile smashing through a wall to the next level.

There, Eggsy observes Tilde from across the bar as a blonde woman in a black dress chats her up.

The mark is distracted, of course, as her mind catches up to the dreamscape. She remembers clinking plastic cups of scotch with her seatmate, cheering morosely to the sins of their fathers, before finding herself in an upscale bar.

Disorientation is normal; everyone in this business knows that. It’s best to approach the mark once it’s faded some in order not to spook them, so Eggsy sits in waiting.

The blonde twirls her hair around her finger as her teeth glide over her bottom lip. She leans in, smiling sweetly, and speaks to Tilde. After a few moments of silence, the blonde’s nostrils flare in annoyance. She tries again, resting her hand on Tilde’s arm and seems to be asking a question.

Eggsy stands up and begins his trek over to where the mark is seated. As he draws closer, it’s apparent that Tilde has overcome her brief confusion and says, “What?” to the blonde.

The blonde huffs a sigh, retracting her hand as she stands up. “Never mind,” she pouts before walking away. She nears Eggsy, a slow smile crawling over her generous red mouth and winks.

In that moment, he catches a flicker of Charlie and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He continues on to the vacant seat next to Tilde and sits. “Did you know that your friend made off with your room key?” he inquires, raising a finger to the bartender.

“Pardon?” Tilde says, blinking. “My room…” She goes to the pocket of her trousers and feels around, groaning in realization. “That bitch!”

The bartender comes over. “Two of what she’s havin’, please,” Eggsy tells him. “And put it on my tab, if you will.” He flashes the mark a smile. “Henry de Vere,” he introduces, extending his hand.

“Tilde Västergötland,” she replies, giving him a shake. A weak grin appears as she rests her cheek against her fists. “Look at me, I’m a right mess.”

Eggsy shrugs in disagreement. “Nah, just a bird in dire need of a drink.” On cue, their order is set down on the bar’s red napkins. He picks up his glass and holds it up in a toast. “To messy business, then?”

“Yes,” Tilde says, brightening a bit. Their glasses clink and an uncertain look darkens her blue eyes while Eggsy takes a sip of his drink. She glances around the bar, clearly sensing deja vu.

He tilts his head. “Are you alright?”

She turns back to him, shaking her head. “I’m just a bit out of sorts,” Tilde assures him.

Around them, her projections are humming with her energy and carry on with their lives. Several glance at them, sensing their mistress’ emotions, but for now, Eggsy has nothing to worry about. The dream is stable and his mark is engaging him.

“So what do you do?” she asks once they’ve drank some of their beverages. Tilde runs her tongue over her lips, wiping up excess alcohol.

Eggsy smiles. “Nothin’ too special,” he says. “I specialize in a very specific type of security.”

“Security?” Tilde questions with a grin. “That can be interesting. What specific type?”

The projections murmur as their attention begins to shift. He leans in to whisper in her ear. “Subconscious security,” Eggsy tells her.

“Are you talking about dreams, Mr. de Vere?” Tilde shifts uncomfortably. “Extraction?” She inches away from him as everyone in the bar turns their attention to her and Eggsy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a specter of Chester King passing through a doorway. Eggsy catches her wrist and looks at her. “I am here to protect you, Ms. Västergötland. I am here to protect you in the event that someone tries to access your mind through your dreams.”

“What’s happening?” she whispers, sounding frightened.

Eggsy looks around before focusing back on Tilde. “You’re not safe here, yeah? They’re comin’ for you. Look outside.”

They turn to the window, where the once blue, cloudless sky is darkened with rain clouds and a downpour of water.

“Strange weather, innit?” Eggsy comments. He glances at Tilde. “You’ve been trained for this, Ms. Västergötland. Deep down you know that none of this is real. You’re in a dream.” He pats her knee. “Now, the easiest way for you to test yourself is to try and remember how you arrived at this hotel. Can you do that?”

Tilde looks around, confused as she tries to piece together her last steps. “Yeah, I…”

“Breathe, luv,” he assures. “Remember your trainin’. Accept the fact that you’re in a dream and I’m here to protect you.” Eggsy observes Tilde taking a deep breath. “Go on.”

“Are you not real?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No, I’m a projection of your subconscious, sent here to protect you in the event the extractors tried to pull you into a dream.” He reaches for his glass and finishes its contents. “And I believe that’s what’s happenin’ right now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tilde agrees, pursing her lips together in thought. “Can you get me out of here?”

He extends his hand as Eggsy slides off the bar stool. “Right away,” he says. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the third level that everything goes to shit.

There’s only six of them now, having left Percival and Professor Arnold on the second and first levels respectively. Eggsy envies his colleagues as the chill from the snow-covered mountain range bites at his fingers, even inside the bunker.

Dodging projections and ducking into corners comprised of jagged rocks, Eggsy begins to wonder about what Charlie has been up to while he’s been abroad.

The level is straight of a Bond or similar spy film, from their suits made of Kevlar so expertly woven it could be mistaken for real bespoke fabric to the fantastical weapons.

Eggsy recalls overhearing Roxy’s exclamation of her Oxford heels having a poisonous dagger hidden in the front. He’s currently carrying an umbrella that acts as a shield, machine gun, and has x-ray vision, which is coming in handy as more projections are rushing towards the group.

“Couldn't somebody have dreamt up a goddamn beach?” Tilde grouses from behind him, her forehead creased into a frown when Eggsy glances at her.

“My apologies, madam,” Charlie retorts from the other way, firing back at their pursuers.

Merlin throws a gold-plated lighter that apparently doubles as a grenade as it explodes upon its targets. “Hesketh, I’m impressed.”

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Merlin,” the point man hisses. He pulls the trigger of his machine gun, taking out five projections. “Thank you.”

At the heels of Roxy and Gazelle’s laughter, they continue down the corridor and shooting projections as they appear.

Eggsy isn’t at all surprised; the deeper one goes into their or another’s subconscious, the more there is to fight off. Throwing a punch, dodging it, raising your hands up; just another protective instinct.

Except it’s all in the mind.

They come upon a solitary door, similar to the ones in hospitals, set against green brocade wallpaper. Several oil paintings are hung nearby, depicting landscapes and a portrait of a subject long past.

“Where are we?” Tilde asks, frightened. She goes to touch to textured surface of a woman’s face, her fingertips hovering over the smiling lips.

He comes up alongside her, noticing the similarities between the woman and his mark. “We are where you want to be,” Eggsy tells her. “Where you feel comfortable, yeah?”

“Never around him,” she whispers as Tilde cranes her head to look through the glass of the door. “Even with him lying in bed, I always felt like he didn’t want me around.”

Eggsy pats her shoulder and goes to reply when he hears Merlin’s shout over the sound of gunfire. Before he can react, he’s knocked onto the floor. Oxygen rushes from his lungs, leaving a dull ache in its memory as an elbow collides with his solar plexus.

Blood rushing in his ears filters out the sounds of screaming and gunfire, which only comes back when he realizes that someone is lying across him, their blood spilling over his lap. A bald head is the only clue he needs to know that it’s Merlin.

Charlie grabs the fallen Scotsman and lies him on the floor as Gazelle goes to check Eggsy over. He pushes her aside to rush to Merlin, where his colleagues and Tilde are gathered around him.

“Is he?” he rasps, coming closer. Eggsy catches the glossiness of Roxy’s tears on her cheeks and chokes on his own breathing. “No.”

He drops down to his knees, wavering on them while he looks into Merlin’s lifeless hazel eyes. “Jesus,” Eggsy whispers as his lips tremble. He clutches onto the front of his friend’s suit, squeezing it until his knuckles ache, though it does no justice for his heart. “No, bruv. Not you…please not you.”

Laughter earns his attention, the kind that is maniacal and foreboding. He looks up to see Chester standing in an old-fashioned elevator, the type with a gate, as he hits the button and the lift begins its descent. As the old man disappears from sight, he gives the young man a two finger salute with a grin that makes Eggsy’s stomach crawl.

He knows where Chester is headed; to Limbo, the created from the ruins of his own mind. And he’s going there to seek out Harry.

“Shit,” Charlie whispers. “What the fuck do we do?”

Eggsy looks at his colleague and then back to Merlin. He runs his hand over the dead man’s eyes, closing them. “We need to complete the job,” he tells the other young man.

Charlie makes an alarmed noise. “Are you mad? We _need_ Merlin!”

“And I’ll get him,” Eggsy counters as he stands up.

“No,” Charlie says, following the extractor to his feet. He grabs Eggsy by the elbow when he tries to go for the elevator. “Eggsy, no, you can’t go after him! You don’t know what will be down there. It’s _raw_ subconscious, mate!”

Eggsy pulls his arm out of Charlie’s reach. “I have to do it, bruv.” He points towards the elevator shaft. “That projection of Chester is my fault.”

“What’s he doing?” Roxy demands as she comes up to them.

Charlie frowns as he keeps his eyes on the other man. “Eggsy wants to go after Chester.”

“And Merlin,” he adds.

Roxy shakes her head. “You’re mad!” she cries. “Eggsy! You can’t!”

“I’m doin’ it, alright?” he shouts, glaring at the architect. “I put Chester King in a prison to lock him in, to contain what I thought was him and now he’s out of control.” Eggsy grabs Charlie’s gun and turns off the safety. “I need to stop him.”

Roxy grabs him, pulling him back. “We don’t have enough time!”

“Not yet, but there will be down there,” Eggsy assures, reaching to grasp her fingers. “I’ll find him. I can give Merlin and myself our own kick from down below, yeah?” He lets go of her hand and grabs Charlie to pull him close to whisper in his ear. “Get Tilde into the room and when it’s done, blow the buildin’. We all ride the kick back up the layers, just as we planned.”

Charlie is still frowning. “You’re barking mad, you know that, Unwin?”

“So I’ve been told,” Eggsy replies. He turns back to Roxy. “Are you comin’ with me?”

 

* * *

 

The descent into Limbo is like a hurricane.

Eggsy has heard tales—rumors, really—of the creature that goes bump in the night. Of the place where there are no rules or sanity.

Of where dreamers go to die if they are unable to find their way back to the conscious world.

As the elevator travels lower, Eggsy wonders what his father felt when he purposely made this trip. Was he frightened by the chaos or even amazed?

Perhaps he was too elated at the prospect of seeing his beloved wife. Michelle Unwin, a woman long dead and who took her husband’s will to live with her. A mother Eggsy wasn’t able to have for as long as he would like and whose memory would fade over time.

Roxy squeezes his fingers out of nervousness, drawing him back to the present. He turns to her and smiles reassuringly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mutters under her breath.

Eggsy raises a brow. “What? Don’t like heights?”

“Heights are fine,” Roxy tells him and swallows as the elevator sways. “It’s this place that makes me nervous.”

He nudges her, giving her fingers a gentle clench. “Hey, it’s gonna be alright, yeah? You’re aces, Rox.”

The elevator stops abruptly, opening to a wood-paneled hallway with a burgundy carpet. Taking the architect by the hand, Eggsy whispers, “I think we’re here.”

Naturally, they draw their weapons and survey the quiet surroundings before proceeding. Hung on the walls are paintings of men and women whose identities are unknown to Eggsy.

“This used to be Chester’s offices,” Roxy explains as she stops in front of a portrait. She taps the brass plaque with her fingernail. “It’s your father, Eggsy.”

He joins her, raising his eyebrows upon seeing Lee Unwin’s face forever frozen in oil painting. The detail is truly exquisite in capturing his father as a young man. Eggsy’s eyes drift towards another painting whose canvas is blank. He squints at it, wondering what on earth is going on.

On the plaque just below the frame holds a name. _Harry Hart._

“Shit,” Eggsy groans, slamming his fist into the wall. “I know what he’s doin’! Follow me.”

They rush to the end of the hallway, where a single door lies. Without knocking, he flings it open to find Chester standing at the head of a long table and holding a gun to Harry’s temple.

“Come and sit down boy,” the old man says, grinning. He notices Roxy behind Eggsy and nods at her. “Roxanne, always a pleasure.”

Eggsy licks his dry lips and takes a step forward. The entire trek is spent watching Chester’s trigger finger, leaving Roxy in the doorway as he sits down next to Harry.

“Harry has always been very fond of you,” Chester states without malice. It shows in his eyes, which have darkened to the color of burnt coals. “And on this occasion, I think it’s acceptable for us to bend the rules a little.”

He nods. “You never liked to bend the rules,” Eggsy mentions. “Why now, Chester?”

“You’re very good, young man. Perhaps my previous judgment was a bit…prejudiced. We could come to an agreement, you and I. Provided, of course, that we can see eye to eye on certain matters.”

Eggsy watches him pressing the tip of the gun into Harry’s skin, hard enough to make his lover wince. “What matters are those, guv?”

“Isn't it obvious, Mr. Unwin?” Chester laughs. “Harry, of course!”

He exchanges a glance with the man, seeking out the warmth of his brown eyes. “I know that I love him.”

“You keep telling yourself what you know,” the old man snarls. “But what do you believe, Eggsy? The nonsense that Merlin told you? What do you feel about what pain you caused him?”

Eggsy sucks in a breath. “Guilt.”

“Guilt,” Chester repeats mockingly. “Guilt for your bullheadedness. Guilt for allowing the man you loved to suffer your fate. You are a virus, Eggsy! A fever. Harry is the human body raising his core temperature to kill the virus. _You_ are making him sick. _You_ are making him suffer! The only way to cure it is to walk away from him, disappear.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t do it,” Eggsy whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“If you want Harry to live, you must promise me to walk away!” the old man yells. “Do him the honor, boy! Make your decision!”

A gunshot rings out, followed by a deafening silence. Eggsy looks at the space that Chester once filled, now just evaporating cinders of what used to be a projection. “I’d rather be with Harry, thanks.”

Roxy breathes a sigh of relief just as his lover slumps in his seat with the same emotion. He palms his face, brushing wayward locks of brown hair from his brow.

“You all right?” Eggsy asks as he lowers his gun, clicking the safety back on.

Harry looks up at him, studying the young man before finally nodding. “I believe so,” he answers, loosening his tie with a trembling hand. “It’s been a rather emotional day, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees, taking a step forward. “You could say somethin’ to that effect.”

Roxy’s hand grabs him by the wrist, tugging on him before he can move. “Eggsy,” she pleads, looking worried when he turns back to her.

“I know,” he says. “Get out of here, yeah? I’m gonna finish this and fetch Merlin, but let me just…” Eggsy glances back to Harry. “Let me say goodbye.”

“Of course,” Roxy tells him. “See you up top.”

Eggsy nods and watches her retreating figure running through the visages of Limbo until she’s gone, gone, gone. He turns back to Harry, who has decided to stand. He is brushing his palms over the material of his trouser, smoothing away wrinkles. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Chester? No,” the older man assures with a dimpled grin. “You know my name.”

He shrugs. “Merlin told me,” Eggsy begins to explain. “‘Bout us, ‘bout what I did when I thought you died.” Tears sting his eyes while a sob presses painfully against his throat. “I am so sorry, Harry.”

“None of that, darling,” Harry tells him, closing the distance between them and cupping the young man’s face. He brushes away Eggsy’s tears and then presses a gentle kiss upon his forehead. “This is not that the time for that.”

Eggsy can’t help it; the frustration, the exhaustion, the loneliness—it bubbles to the surface as he stands before Harry’s projection. “I forgot all ‘bout you,” he whimpers. “I forgot ‘bout us!”

“No,” Harry counters, pulling him into his arms. “You didn’t forget. Deep down, you knew. How else would I have kept showing up?”

“Because you’re a stubborn arsehole, that’s why,” Eggsy answers, burying his face into Harry’s sternum.

His lover doesn’t disagree, only holding him tighter and resting his cheek against the top of Eggsy’s head. “We had our time together,” Harry whispers to him. “You and I had our time in here, but now it’s time for you to go, darling boy. You have to let me go.”

Eggsy pulls back to look his lover in the eye. “I’m gonna miss you so much, Harry,” he sobs.

“I love you,” the older man tells him, bringing their lips together.

As far as kisses go, it’s soft, like a waking up from a good dream. Eggsy sinks into it, reciting the sensation of Harry’s chapped lips against his own and the taste of his mouth.

He steps back, knowing that if he doesn’t do it soon, he’ll never leave this place. “I’ve got to go,” Eggsy whispers as his mouth still tingles.

Perhaps his father stayed in Limbo because he couldn’t bear to leave his mother, even if she was a projection of ideals and old memories. The pain of walking away from Harry is beyond anything he’s ever experienced and it brings him an understanding of Lee’s choice.

Harry looks as lovely as ever, graceful and kind as he stands in Chester’s office. How this projection remains calm in the wake of Eggsy’s emotions is beyond the young man.

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry promises, his voice as gentle as a whisper.

Like a goodbye on a summer breeze; gone, gone, and gone until it fades into a bittersweet memory.

 

* * *

 

(It’s like a fairytale.

Where the princess finds what she has been searching for in the quiet of enchanted mountains. In this case, it’s a bunker hidden in their snow-covered crags and cliffs.

The air around Tilde is still, even as she touches the steel handle and pushes the door open. Upon its movements, she finds her father upon his deathbed, though the machines that prolonged his life are gone. The room is filled with a song she remembers from her childhood, a Swedish nursery rhyme her parents once sung to her.

She can recall their voices, complimenting each other as they sang so sweetly. Tilde swallows back the lump in her throat as she approaches the bed, noticing how her father appears to be asleep.

The sole of her heels clicks against the floor, awakening him.

It seems that Mr. Västergötland’s eyes spring open far quicker than she remembers. She watches the blue irises brightening when he looks at her…with fondness and affection.

Something so foreign to her, of memories long gone.

With a trembling hand, he beckons her to his bed for words are difficult in his weakened state.

Hesitating, Tilde goes to him. She wonders what child wouldn’t go to their parents, regardless of their relationship. The instinct, instilled even before birth, is natural. Tearfully, she smiles at him as she takes his wrinkled hand. “Hi, Papa,” she greets.

Mr. Västergötland struggles to form words loud enough for her to hear. He motions for Tilde to lean over, breathing a sigh of relief when she does so. “Disa…disap…disappointed.”

“I know, Papa,” Tilde tells him, unable to keep her tears from falling. “I know you were disappointed that I couldn’t be you.”

Her father shakes his head furiously, squeezing her hand. “My little sparrow,” the dying man says, grinning at his daughter, no longer a little girl but a woman. “No, no. I was disappointed…that you tried.”

A gasp falls from her lips, one of realization and of relief. Tilde brings her father’s hand to her lips and kisses it, sobbing. She notices a safe next to his bed and goes to inspect it.

“Sparrow,” her father intones, causing Tilde to look at him. “Open…it. Please.”

She nods at the request and begins to spin the combination wheel, setting the numbers in place until the door springs open. Tilde reaches inside, raises a brow as her hand comes across two objects.

One is a revised last Will and Testament.

The other is an origami sparrow, one that will save the princess from the treachery of evil.

And it shows her the light.)

 

* * *

 

He wakes to his cheeks being rubbed raw by sand.

Saltwater stings his pores and wets his clothes, causing it to stick to his body. It’s all around him, endless when he dares to crack open a bloodshot eye, save for the beach he lies upon.

How he came upon this place, the lad has no idea. Until up this very moment, his mind draws a blank. All his memories are shrouded in darkness and he’s a solitary figure on a beach.

The young man lies there, allowing the sea to wash over him and push him further up the shore until nature’s sounds are interrupted by approaching men. He lifts his head to get a better look at them—strapping warriors in Highland attire.

They come upon him and look at the fallen man in curiosity. One of them shouts in Gaelic as he steps forward to flip the lad onto his back.

Instinctively, he holds his hands up in surrender. The warriors laugh at this, speaking amongst themselves before the man standing above him grabs his arm and hoists him up.

“I don’t—” the young man says as he’s pushed forward, a clear indication that these warriors want him to start walking.

The end of a musket pokes him between his shoulder blades, nudging him forward with a clear indication that he’d better follow orders or else. These warriors neither care for the condition of their uninvited guest nor his confusion as they speak.

In fact, they seem to find his lack of knowledge of Gaelic to be rather amusing.

He trudges on, wincing in discomfort from his injuries and the sensation of sand drying to his clothes. The lad stares down at himself, wondering how on earth he came to wear such a fine suit. Where it isn’t covered in debris, the young man can see pinstripes pressed upon navy fabric.

His tie is gone, as are his shoes and socks; probably lost to the wilds of the sea.

A moment is endless in this place, wherever he is, and it seems like ages before the warriors lead him into an ordinate entryway. Painted upon the walls is a mural depicting the Battle of Bannockburn in glorious color and detail; Robert the Bruce pointing his weapon at King Edward II, looking brave and unalarmed about being outnumbered. It’s as if this man knows that the battle will be a Scots victory.

While the young man stares, the warriors commensurate with the household staff, who look upon their guest with disdain. He’s dripping onto the polished floors, undoubtedly making a mess of things.

As one of the warriors grabs his bicep, the wind picks up and begins to howl most fiercely. It sways the foundations of the house, screeching as it passes, and startles the young man, whose fate is still unknown.

He goes with the warrior and finds himself being taken to a stone staircase that leads to a cellar below. His destination is as equally elegant as the one above with rooms whose walls are dark mahogany and gleam under the lamps’ attention.

The warrior shoves him into a plush dining chair. The crimson cushion makes his arrangements more comforting, as well as the bowl of soup that’s placed before him.

“You may eat,” a man with a Scottish brogue states from the other end of the table.

So the young man eats. He practically shoves the bowl into his face, lapping at the soup like an animal and ignores his host until he’s had his fill.

In the dim light, he finds himself in the company of an old man. So old and ancient that his wrinkled skin resembles parchment, as if a single touch would cause him to crumble into a dust. It used to be golden once, long ago in this old man’s youth.

His face is hairless save for his eyebrows, which are a shocking white. Freshly fallen snow comes to mind when the young man looks upon him.

Freshly fallen snow upon dead tree limbs, as this stranger’s eyes are just as dark.

“Have you come to kill me?” the old man inquires, voice quivering with age. He smacks his lips together while turning his head towards a single window.

The young man joins him, watching the world around them crumble.

“I am waiting for someone,” the old man says, pulling out a snow globe and setting it on the table. He gestures for an attendant to come and bring it to his guest.

Underneath liquid, artificial flakes, and glass lie two evergreen trees. One is larger than the other, though both are just as vibrant as they stand out against the white scenery. “Someone from a half-remembered dream,” the young man whispers as he inspects the trinket.

His host is nodding when he peels his eyes away from the window. “Eggsy,” he chuckles, his features creasing as they show a bemused emotion.

 _Eggsy,_ he thinks. _Eggsy. That’s my name._ _Eggsy._

“Impossible,” his host declares, shaking his head. “We were young men together and now I am an old man.”

Eggsy swallows, trying to recall this person before him. “Filled with regret,” he says.

“Waiting to die alone,” the old man adds, scoffing.

The gesture, so simple and small, causes the final piece to click inside of Eggsy’s mind. “Merlin,” he intones, pushing the bowl away from him. “Merlin.”

“Yes?” his friend asks, raising a brow.

Eggsy leans forward. “I’ve come back for you,” he tells the old man. “To remind you.” He pauses, thinking of what that was. “Somethin’…somethin’ you once knew. What we both knew.”

“Harry,” Merlin says.

The young man glances at the snow globe and wonders what would happen if he broke it. Without hesitation, he grabs it and hurls the toy against the wall, watching it shatter. As splinters fall to the carpet, he remembers.  
  
Like being woken up from a hundred year slumber, the young man remembers. “Harry,” Eggsy agrees. “This world is not real, Merlin.”

“You’ve come to convince me to come back.”

Eggsy feels the table digging into his diaphragm, pressing, pressing, and pressing as the world violently sways from the Limbo winds. “To take a leap of faith. To come back so we can be young men together again,” he says, holding out his hand. “Come back with me, Merlin. Come back.”

 

* * *

 

 

(On the third level, the kick is ignited by an explosion.

It lights up the sky like fireworks and bonfires on Guy Fawkes Day, burning in defiance as it flies…

…the second level is kicked by the sounds of a Piano Sonata. A melancholy tune that tells a tale of loss and regrets through slow notes that keeping drifting…

…as the Professor on the first level crashes the van through the stone wall of a bridge and into the churning waters below.

In the distance, Eggsy feels the impact and wakes.

After all, that’s what everyone does in a dream.)

 

* * *

 

He startles himself awake just as the plane touches down on the runway.

Eggsy sucks in oxygen like he’s taking his first breath and blinks away the last visages of unconsciousness. Around him are the murmurs of waking team members and Gazelle while she places a phone call on her mobile. He hardly pays attention to what she’s saying, for Merlin is his first concern.

His friend palms his face, visibly relieved to find that it’s no longer wrinkled with age. Gone are the snow-white eyebrows, replaced with their usual black as his fingertips pass over them. Merlin realizes that Eggsy is staring and glances at him, mesmerized. They have no time to dwell on it, for the plane taxis to the terminal and they must disembark.

Tilde Västergötland walks several paces ahead of the team, looking pulled-together in her black sheath and a matching blazer draped over her arm. She is at peace, if her expression is anything to go by, and seems to walk through the terminal like a woman who has found closure.

Eggsy suspects that news of her father’s company breaking up will come in a short time, though he doubts he’ll be paying much attention.

Pulling out his passport—the one issued to Gary Unwin—his heart begins to flutter uncontrollably within the depths of his chest. _Nerves,_ he realizes as he falls into the Customs queue, just twenty feet from touching English soil.

From going home after being gone for so long.

To Harry.

 _To Harry,_ Eggsy thinks wistfully. Harry Hart, a man wearing a bespoke suit with an umbrella hooked over his forearm, who marched up to his father’s grave and introduced himself.

The same man who opened up a new world to Eggsy, of dreams and pushing beyond one's’ endurance. To become someone who wouldn’t end up like his father, to molding into his own man. Endless memories are associated with the man who would become his lover, even when Eggsy couldn’t recall his name.

He is called forward by the customs official, swallowing his nerves as he places his passport in the Plexiglas slot. Eggsy rubs his fingers over his totem, feeling the grooves and nicks catching on his skin as the woman looks over his information.

A thin blonde brow is raised when she stares at him, then her computer screen. She slides the passport back to Eggsy. “Welcome home, Mr. Unwin,” the woman tells him before calling for the next person in the queue.

The rest of his time in Heathrow is a blur. Eggsy hardly has time to breathe in the chilly London air or appreciate the fog blanketing the city. He finds himself being escorted to a nondescript Towne car that awaits him and Merlin at the arrivals pick-up, watching as his merger luggage is loaded into the trunk.

Wordlessly, Merlin guides him into the car and sits beside him as they are driven away from the airport and into the direction of Stanhope Mews. The ride is fret with intense silence, as neither man dares to speak and Eggsy is bubbling with nervous excitement.

As the car turns down his street, excitement becomes anxiety.

 _What if this is a dream?_ Eggsy thinks to himself as they pull up in front of the mew house he used to share with Harry. His mind has the ability to paint vivid pictures —his father was an architect, after all—and he’s been able to fool countless marks.

What if the same is being done to him?

Merlin is observing the driver placing their luggage is put on the curb when Eggsy stumbles out of the car. He grabs his bag, trying to ignore the way his body is trembling. The older man hands the stranger a tip and bids him a safe trip before beckoning Eggsy to follow. “This way,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his coat to retrieve his set of house keys.

Each step towards his home becomes tinged a myriad of emotions—the stabbing dread of this being a dream, the happiness of feeling the warmth of being back in his house, and the sadness of having it leave it in the first place. He and Merlin drop their luggage by the front door as the latter calls out to Harry.

“In the garden!” a familiar, wonderful, lush voice answers. He sounds quite frustrated and the thought warms Eggsy to his core.

Eggsy locks up, turning to Merlin. His friend nods and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Wait in the kitchen,” he says before departing through the French doors.

He suspects that Merlin wants to tell Harry that he’s come home rather than shocking the poor man half to death. Eggsy hates the idea of having to wait for more than a single moment, but at least it will give him the time to see if he’s dreaming. Taking off his coat and placing it on the kitchen counter; he fishes out the battered toy top and stares at it in the natural light of the room.

 _Would it be so bad if it this is a dream?_ Eggsy wonders as he ventures over to the kitchen table. For the first time in years, he wishes Lee were still alive so he could ask him if he felt this way when he went to Limbo.

The top hits the table with a clink, spinning round and round, as Harry comes barreling into the kitchen, looking wholly disheveled and bewildered. He is dressed casually, as the older man is wont to do when he’s at home, and wears a jumper from several Christmases ago. The navy fabric is a bit faded from laundering and use, though it still compliments Harry’s fair complexion.

He spots smudges of dirt in the creases of Harry’s trousers, from where he undoubtedly wiped his hands upon hearing Merlin’s news.

“Eggsy?” he gasps, taking off his glasses to ensure that he’s not hallucinating. The whiskey brown irises glisten with unshed tears, more apparent now that they weren’t hidden behind lenses. “Eggsy?”

He blinks and Harry is embracing him. The force with which his partner holds him sends the younger man back several paces. It’s no matter; Harry goes with him, tightening his grip. “My darling boy,” Harry whispers. He smells the same—of bergamot, ginger, basil, and cedar with a dash of leather oxfords and a bit of fertilizer from outside. “It’s you. You’ve come home!”

Eggsy stands, practically boneless in Harry’s arms as he uses his vantage point from which they stand to watch the totem. It continues to spin; dancing over the oak surface as the young man’s heart constricts in his chest. He has to know if this is a dream, even if it means the pain of leaving Harry once more, Eggsy must know.

The toy top hits a dent in the wood, a scar from a time where he and Harry were carving pumpkins for Halloween. His hand had slipped and the knife ended up in the table, marring the oak surface with his clumsiness. Harry laughed as he merrily kissed Eggsy’s cheek, stating that the young man had his ways of leaving his mark. Later, surrounded by candles flickering inside of a pair of poorly carved Jack-O-Lanterns and the twilight sky above, Harry asked Eggsy to move in.

Within the heartbeats of fading memory, the totem skips and tilts on its axis before falling. Through laws of inertia, the object rocks away from the excess motion until it comes to a stop.

Eggsy closes his eyes and breathes.


End file.
